Box Five
by Melancholy's Child
Summary: Christine dares enter the opera box of the Ghost. Rated R for sexy times.


**Wheel of Fish gave me the prompt "Box Five" - this is the result. Rated R for smutty reasons!**

* * *

 **Box Five**

Christine slips among the glossy red walls of the hallway, the ornate wallpaper as glaringly bright as the gown she wears. The lights of the theatre cast everything into a hazy, fiery glow, an eerie effect she knows will ease once the opera begins. Her hair cascades down her back in soft brown curls, tickling the expanses of skin not covered by the thin straps of her dress.

Crossing through the curtain at the back, she sits upon the single chair situated closer to the curved edge of the balcony. The solitary seat invites no one to join its occupant. She doubts she will be so unfortunate. She listens for a while to the bubble of the people crowding into the theatre; at once both one of them and apart within this box, within her world.

The lights blink once, twice. The masses filing into the theatre begin to hush as the red décor spins into a gradual darkness. Attention is focused upon the stage, and she is left with only the operatic voices beginning to rise upward and the hissing of her own breath in her ears.

She does not know how long she can wait, her agony only increasing with every scene that passes. Her gloved hands clench upon her lap. Her eyes are upon the opera singers on the stage, but they do not focus, her senses attuned around her instead. Her chest heaves within her corset.

And then, from the shadows, the sharp stab of a voice: "Who is in _my box_?"

Even though she is expectant, she still jumps at the sudden noise. The walls seem to vibrate around her, and all she can hear is the fierce thudding of her own heart. She waits.

A hand shoots out and encloses her wrist, pulling her to her feet. She stumbles as she is yanked into the pitch black of the back of the opera box, away from any seeking eyes from the audience. Her wrists are pinned above her head, the wallpaper silky against the backs of her hands. The hands binding her are bare, and she feels the bite of a ring upon one finger.

She can see nothing in this cloaking darkness save the shadow of a shoulder of a man. A wide-brimmed hat conceals all of his face but a black mask cut across thin, curling lips. His very presence washes over her like smoldering embers of a brewing fire, thick and seeping warmth from his body.

She feels a finger, calloused and cool, settle upon her throat.

"My, my, are you _nervous_?" he says, voice breaking across her skin.

She shivers. She shifts her feet to allow the knee pressing against her skirts. He leans in, and she feels the bite of teeth upon her rapid pulse, and then the dry rasp of lips smoothing the sting afterward.

"I expected to be alone tonight, monsieur," she manages to reply. "You are intruding upon my enjoyment of the opera."

Those lips curve against her skin, and she is certainly trembling now. "Am I intruding, madame? You knew very well what would happen should you enter my domain, and still, you dared." One hand keeps her wrists pinned while the other travels down the length of her arm. He seems to slowly relish the drag of his knuckles until he reaches the beginning white curve of her breasts, and here, she more thoroughly feels the press of his fingers.

Then he bends, his lips descending down the length of her neck and across her quivering flesh, claiming with soft, damp kisses. She wriggles against him, bringing her chest against his, her hips seeking friction. Even through her skirts, she hooks a heel around his thigh and pulls him closer. He loses control for a moment, his mouth gasping a breath of hot air into the curve of her neck, before he retaliates.

He sinks to his knees before her, relinquishing his hold on her wrists. He fists great handfuls of her skirts, and with a shove of his shoulders, he has her legs spread wide, one thigh lifted by the bulk of his body. The scarlet waves of her gown waterfall around them. He delves through the layers of silk and tulle and finds her bare for him and oh-so ready.

She arches against the wall, her eyes lifting upward, as he descends upon her. He feasts with lips and tongue, the rough nose of his mask a welcome and familiar presence between her thighs. She rises upon her toes, uncertain whether to press into him or try to escape the onslaught of too much sensation too soon. His fervent working of her flesh quickly sends her into a spiral of dizzying light as he pulls pleasure from her with all the expert motions of someone who has spent hours learning every way to make her sigh and moan. The opera singer's voice rising in an aria drowns out any noises she makes.

His tongue presses flat against her, relishing the feel of every last throb of her core as she comes down from her high. She is still trembling as he eases his shoulders from her and helps her sag to the floor, her skirts settling in scarlet puddles around them. He has lost his hat, but his wig is not one hair out of place. He looks supremely satisfied with himself.

"Monsieur le Fantome," she says after she catches her breath, "I believe you laid a trap for me."

His answering chuckle thrills her. "Madame le Fantome, you wore no undergarments."

Her face heats for the first time, and she is certain he can see it. She lightly slaps his shoulder; he is as unmovable as a mountain.

"Will you join me in Box Five more often?" he asks, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, a tender gesture that warms her thoroughly.

She tosses her curls from her shoulders, watching how his eyes hungrily follow her movements. "You know I prefer to be center stage, among the masses. Besides, if I joined you, I might never be able to actually _watch_ the opera."

He crouches closer. She can scent herself on him, but she lets him kiss her anyway, feeling desire pooling low in her belly once again.

"You have seen this one before," he says against her lips.

"Then I suppose we must go home."

They slip into the hollow column among thunderous applause as the soprano finishes her aria. He has no lantern, but she needs not the light, long ago having memorized the path as the same rhythm of her heart. His hands seem to dance about her, fingers at her curls or thumbing her cheek or sometimes reaching out to tug her closer, never quite letting go.

They manage to the edge of the slick black waters of the deep before he cannot wait any longer. He tugs at the strings of her corset as deftly as he tugs at his violin, plucking each piece of clothing from her figure one by one until she stands in naught but her stockings. Then he spreads her across his cloak and nudges between her thighs, and she accepts him with a sigh of relief.

She can do little but cling to him, his pace quickly spiraling into something beyond either of their control. Once he has buried himself deep and shuddered against her, she eases back, cupping his masked face and dragging her mouth slowly across his.

"Wife," he says, and she grins against his lips.

He gathers her in his cloak before she can catch a chill, and he settles her away from him only long enough to prod the boat across the lake. The fire within the living room is still blazing – they left it only an hour ago – and he wastes no time in settling them both in front of it. She does not protest still being bundled within his cloak, the scent of him strong around her, nor being unfolded within his arms.

Perhaps the moment upstairs conjured up too many memories, for he sits holding her for far longer than is comfortable. Eventually, he parts the cloak, a question in his adoring eyes, and she allows him to ply her willing flesh once again.


End file.
